


the ones i've kept

by rvd



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvd/pseuds/rvd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Bucky went to the army and learned to handle over a hundred different weapons, Steve Rogers grew up and out, and apparently became the best damn grifter in the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ones i've kept

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a leverage au and became straight RIVAL THIEVES AU

“Jesus, Nat,” Bucky groans, “I’m not a grifter—I’m not cut out for that.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “We’re short on this job.”

“I’m a shit honeypot.”

Natasha snorts. “Bat your pretty blue eyes, wear the charcoal suit, and you’ll be fine.”

“Fine, fine. Who’s the mark?”

A beautiful strawberry blonde woman appears on the screen, clearly rich if her jewelry and clothes are anything to go by. “Pepper Potts,” Natasha says, “CEO of Stark Industries and manager of Tony Stark’s art collection. Including van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet. We have invitations to Stark’s gala tomorrow night. Your cover is Captain James Chapman, and I will be,” she adopts her Russian accent, “Russian heiress Daria Nikishina. Stark is known for showing off his extensive art collection during these galas, and his almost unbeatable security system, JARVIS.”

“What does that mean for the security cameras?”

“Don’t worry about that. They’re on a different system, and it won’t be hard to erase later.”

“What’s the plan?”

“You’ll introduce yourself to Potts, and tell her all about the wealthy Russian heiress who loves post-impressionist art. Then I’ll approach Potts, ask her about buying the van Gogh. Potts will say no at first, of course, but once I offer 250 million dollars, she won’t be able to. You’ll follow us to the secure area, get rid of her bodyguards, and we’ll get away with the painting. Simple.”

If fucking only.

 

What really goes down is a lot more complicated.

Bucky gets in easily enough; the security is a simple invitation check and metal detector. Metal detectors are why Bucky carries around ceramic knives.

He immediately begins to scope out the ballroom. It’s massive, with two full walls made of glass. He’s pretty sure that even if it weren’t the fortieth floor, they wouldn’t be a viable escape. He’s sure those windows are bulletproof.

Bucky had arrived fashionably late. Bucky has years of experience telling him that everything goes a bit smoother when everyone’s a little bit drunk. The crowd is packed enough for someone, say Bucky himself, to slip into the crowd, or just be invisible.

Art is all over, statues and paintings, centerpieces and wallflowers, on walls and pillars. Bucky spots the van Gogh almost immediately. Never has Bucky been more glad of the unique mindset of the New York wealthy, for whom a van Gogh is just decoration.

Bucky’s been a lot of beautiful places in his life with a lot of beautiful views. The fortieth floor of Stark Tower? That’s a beautiful view.

He spots Potts almost immediately, talking to a couple of senators. He takes a circuit of the room instead, picking up a glass of champagne, and finding someone to talk to.

He keeps an eye on Potts all through hearing a college kid’s attempts of flirting with him. Bucky can’t imagine he was ever that bad at flirting, even at that age.

Bucky waits until Potts is alone before excusing himself from the rich kid. He grabs two flutes of champagne on his way over, and adopts his most charming smile.

“Hi,” Bucky says, “I saw you sitting by yourself, and I couldn’t help coming over to introduce myself.” He offers a glass of champagne to Potts, which she takes with a smile. “James Chapman, sorry, Captain James Chapman.” He says it with a sheepish look. “I just got promoted, I keep forgetting.”

“Pepper Potts,” Potts says, accepting his proffered handshake.

She asks him the routine questions about his military career, and about some of his higher-ups who might be in their overlapping circle of acquaintances. He can bluff his way through some of it, but Bucky’s black ops background is very different from his cover’s shining record.

Bucky’s telling Potts a made up story about a tangled web of mistranslated directions, really charming her, when Natasha makes her entrance. Bucky makes sure to be properly awed.

“Daria Nikishina. She’s really something,” Bucky says like he’s telling Potts a secret, “I met her once last year. Real intimidating.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure,” Potts says.

“I’ve heard she’s some sort of billionaire.” Natasha’s cover’s last name, and her jewelry should be saying that for them but it never hurts to reinforce it.

Across the room, Tony Stark spills a drink on someone in an incredibly expensive suit, no doubt a very important someone. Bucky sees the way Potts’s face gets pinched. “Excuse me,” she tells Bucky, “I need to take care of something.”

“Oh, of course,” Bucky says, fumbling on purpose, “It was great meeting you, really great…” he trails off as she walks away.

His eyes scan the rest of the room and then—a flash of blonde hair.

Time stands still.

Bucky met Steve Rogers in Brooklyn, New York when they were ten years old. They lived out of each other’s pockets for eight years until Bucky went to the army and Steve went to college. It’s been ten years.

Ten years must really change a man because Steve is ten inches taller and built like a brick wall. But it turns out you really don’t get over your first love that easily.

Natasha interrupts his brooding, thank god. “There’s another crew here.” He takes it back. That’s terrible news. He meets her eye briefly across the crowded room. She looks nervous.

He pretends to take a sip of his drink and asks, “How many?”

“Two at least.”

Bucky swears. At that moment, the lights flicker on and off. The telltale sign of someone messing with the security system.

“Three,” Natasha amends, “if they’ve got a techie.”

“They’re good if they hacked JARVIS.”

“Which isn’t good for us.”

“They might not be after the van Gogh.”

“Maybe. I’ll try to do some recon, but James? Don’t get distracted. Stay on Potts.”

And see, Bucky _would’ve_ , but that’s right when Steve Rogers knocks into him.

“God, I’m sorry,” Steve starts, and then he seems to notice who he bumped into. “Are you—Bucky is that you?”

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky says, grinning. “You grew _up_ , man.”

Steve flushes. “I got a growth spurt in college. But wow, look at you.”

Bucky grins, pleased. “Did you end up studying art?” he asks. Steve had loved art growing up, had been really good at it too.

“Art history.” And then he goes, “The man I saw you with earlier was he…?”

Bucky laughs. “Subtle, Steve. No, not my boyfriend. I’m single.”

“Good to hear,” Steve says, ducking his head.

An older man comes over, claps Steve on the shoulder and says, “Fitzgerald! Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Steve shoots Bucky a look, but makes his pleasantries.

“Fitzgerald, huh?” Bucky says once the guy leaves.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sort of anxiously, “I can—”

“I didn’t realize you got married.” It’s just Bucky’s luck honestly. The guy who made him realize he’s gay turns up, hotter than ever before, in a nice tux, and he’s married.

“Yeah,” Steve goes. “A little after college. It didn’t last. We got divorced pretty soon after.”

“Subtle,” Bucky echoes from earlier. “You kept the last name though?”

“Well I already changed my email address,” Steve smiles, and really, it’s just as breathtaking as it’s always been.

“So what do you do now?” Bucky asks.

“Uh, I run a gallery,” Steve says, “Out in the Hamptons.”

Bucky whistles low. “Damn, Steve. You did well for yourself. Where in the Hamptons? I have a house out there.”

Steve pauses, and Bucky realizes his slip up. _He_ has a house in East Hampton, sure, but _his cover_ definitely wouldn’t. “What did you say you did again?”

“Career military,” Bucky says smoothly, thanking god that his cover works with what Steve knows about him. “Captain as of last year. So, why are you here? Checking out the competition?”

Steve smiles. “Something like that. I’m actually here to sell a painting.” He pauses in their circuit of the room in front of the very painting Bucky’s here to steal. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Steve says, eyes on Bucky. “The Portrait of Dr. Gachet.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. If Steve were anyone else Bucky might—but, no. It’s Steve. Bucky can trust him.

Steve turns his eyes back to the painting. “Stark bought it for nearly one hundred million dollars in the 90’s.” $82.5 million in 1990, amounting to a little over $150 million accounting for inflation, but Bucky won’t quibble. “It’s one of two, did you know? The version Stark has is the first, the second is in the Musée d’Orsay.”

“Really? Are they very different?” Bucky asks, though of course, he already knows all of this. Bucky likes hearing Steve talk, though. It’s unexpectedly nice.

“In a couple of ways. Van Gogh said the portraits are sad but gentle, clear and intelligent, how he thought portraits ought to be done. Have you seen the version in Paris, Bucky?”

“No, I haven’t.” Bucky never saw it in the Musée d’Orsay at least.

“The background and the coat are blue,” Steve says gesturing to where they’re different on Stark’s portrait, “And the face is softer.”

Bucky lets the moment sit before asking, “Which do you prefer?”

Steve’s eyes cut to him briefly; he smiles. “Stark’s. Just look at the colors, the way the green ties it together. I love van Gogh’s use of color.” He looks back to Bucky. “And look at the eyes. They’re haunting. I could stare at them for the rest of my life.” He smiles at someone over Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky, can I introduce you to Pepper Potts?”

“We’ve actually already met,” Bucky says, before Steve can do something so simple as ruining Bucky’s cover.

“She didn’t go for it,” Natasha tells him. “We’re onto plan B.”

“James,” Potts says, smiling, “I remember.”

“When did the two of you meet?” Steve asks, while Bucky’s trying to communicate _What the fuck is plan B?_ to Natasha.

Bucky smiles charmingly, “We met earlier tonight. You can’t just let the most beautiful woman in the room drink alone. It’s just not right.”

“Plan B,” Natasha interjects, “is setting off the proximity alarms on the van Gogh.”

Jesus H. Christ, Bucky wishes he weren’t in the middle of trying to act normal so he could ask _why_. He takes a deep breath. He trusts Natasha.

He doesn’t want to damage the painting, but he needs to make sure he gets close enough to set the alarms off. It all depends on how sensitive they are.

 _Here goes nothing_.

Bucky takes a bad step to the side and trips. He falls backwards, towards the painting, and is already counterbalancing the other direction when a strong hand grips his forearm and pulls him forward. He stumbles into Steve and Potts, and puts on a surprised, abashed look.

Sirens wail. Jackpot _._

“God, I’m such a fucking klutz, I apologize,” Bucky says quickly, “They always tell me ‘James, you’re going to trip into the President one day.’ I’m just so glad the painting’s _okay_ , I am so glad—”

“It’s a good thing Steve caught you,” Potts says evenly. She sounds like she still thinks it was an accident. But Steve’s name means Bucky has to look at Steve now, pay attention to him past the death grip on his arm. Steve is looking at him with an intensity Bucky doesn’t really know what to do with.

Their moment’s broken when security comes by. Potts explains the situation to them, but one of the officers, a tall black man with a gap between his two front teeth, says, “Sorry, ma’am, we still have to take it down to security. It’s protocol.”

“How disappointing,” Potts says.

“Yeah,” Bucky echoes. God bless Natasha.

“Oh, Steve, I think Tony wanted to see you.” It must be the art deal Steve was talking about earlier.

Bucky makes his excuses too so he and Natasha can figure out their next move.

He schmoozes for half an hour, making his way around the room, pretending to drink more expensive champagne.

“Make your way to the back rooms,” Natasha says in his ear. “I’m trying to figure out what room the painting’s being put in, but get back there.”

It’s not as hard as Bucky thought it might be to get into the employees only section, and once there, it’s as simple as pretending you’re meant to be there, and blaming someone else for leading you here.

He systematically checks room after room, finding nothing until he peeks into a corner room and sees Steve, Stark, Potts, and a couple security guards. Bucky keeps it in the back of his mind.

“I think I figured out where they hid it,” Natasha says, and starts giving him directions. “I’m disabling the security cameras but it will only last for so long.”

The room Natasha leads him to is empty, and completely void of security. All of Bucky’s instincts scream that it’s a trap.

But the van Gogh is in the center of the room, and Natasha’s disabled the security cameras.

Right as Bucky’s reaching for it, he hears a commotion in the hallway, swears, and looks around frantically for a place to hide.

It looks like his only option is the closet. He just gets the door closed behind him when he hears footsteps walk by. Bucky crouches as quietly as he can, trying not to fuck up his pants more than they’re already fucked up, so that he can look through the small keyhole.

He sees broad shoulders, a shock of blond hair and then—Steve’s face when he turns around.

What the hell is Steve still doing back here? Didn’t he already sell that painting to Stark? Why isn’t he schmoozing with the rest of New York high society?

Which is naturally when Steve opens the back of the painting he sold to Stark and pulls out the fucking _van Gogh_.

While Bucky went to the army and learned to handle over a hundred different weapons, Steve Rogers grew up and out, and apparently became the best damn grifter in the game. If Steve’s good enough to fool Bucky, he’s _good_.

Bucky is pissed.

If it were anyone else, Bucky might be a little bit more composed. Maybe he’d wait for the guy to pass the closet so Bucky could take him by surprise.

“You fucking _punk_ ,” Bucky is saying, and oh, apparently he slammed the closet door open too.

Steve turns around, looking shocked. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he says, still holding the _van Gogh forgery._

“You honeypotted me!” Bucky accuses.

“What are you talking about?”

“Put it down,” Bucky tells him, nodding at the forgery Steve is _still_ holding, though at least he’s holding it with gloves.

“What—why?”

“Because I’m about to punch you. Put it down.”

Steve gives him a look. “I’m not gonna fight you, Buck, you’re my friend.”

Bucky swings at him. Steve ducks.

“What the hell?”

“I warned you.”

“Wait, are you trying to steal the van Gogh? You’re part of the other team?”

“You knew that when you honeypotted me,” Bucky accuses.

Steve’s put down the van Gogh, and even manages to get in a few good hits before Bucky’s training wins out, and he gets him into a tight hold. Bucky drags him towards the radiator, gamely holding onto Steve despite his struggling. He grabs his industrial twist ties and ties Steve’s hands tightly, ignoring everything Steve’s saying.

Bucky gets up, and carefully rolls up the real van Gogh into the plastic poster sleeve he brought in his suit jacket.

“Bucky, please!” Steve is saying. Bucky feels bad leaving him twist tied to the radiator, but he can’t have Steve coming after him. Steve’s a grifter and has those big blue eyes anyone would trust. He can talk his way out of this, whenever security comes by.

“That painting deserves to be seen!”

Bucky stops in his tracks. He turns around. “James, what are you—” Natasha exclaims in his ear.

“ _That’s_ why you were trying to steal it?”

“I was going to give it to the Musée d’Orsay.”

Bucky’s shaking his head, “They wouldn’t just _accept_ it, Steve, how naive are you? They’d send it back to Stark the second they realized what it was.”

“That’s why I made the fake. Stark’s got a third authentication in two weeks, they’ll realize it’s a forgery, and the Musée will have no reason not to accept an anonymous donation in a couple months.”

“That’s… not actually a bad plan.”

“I’ve done it a couple times before,” Steve admits.

“How many is a couple?”

“Like, eight.”

“Wait,” Bucky goes, something finally clicking. “It was _you_. You switched out the Cassatt. I knew it. I stole that painting, it was real when I sold it.”

Steve flushes. “Guilty as charged.”

“Fuck,” Bucky says. He can’t believe he’s doing this. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He cuts Steve out of the twist ties, and hands over the van Gogh.

Steve’s shocked, taking the painting as if on autopilot. “Wait, are you sure?”

“Only if you let me take you to dinner. We’ll catch up for real, and you can tell me all about whatever this is.”

Steve ducks his head, and grins all the way across his face. “I can do that.”


End file.
